The Price of Power
by Chaos-chick3
Summary: Voldemort thinks about his past.


I do not own Harry Potter, the poem is (I think) the property of Blizzard Entertainment and can be found at the beginning of the Diablo II instruction manual.  This is just a one-shot plot bunny I thought of while I was reading the manual (Ok, so I was really bored! I admit it – I _do_ read it for fun sometimes!).  It's a little sad, a little strange, but I hope you like it!  Read and enjoy!

"I have walked the paths; the shadowed roads 

that led to terror's breast.  I have plumbed the depths of

Hatred's womb, and scaled Destruction's crest.

For every secret left unveiled, for every power learned,

I'd sell the remnants of my soul, regardless how it burned.

And still I sought a higher wisdom few could have attained,

Though I found it, it would leave me – broken, damned, and drained.

For now I find this power gained is more unto a curse,

My spirit burns with every spell and each irreverent verse.

Despite this strength and knowledge gained, I have paid a heavy toll,

Never should've traded power for my own immortal soul."

                                    - C. Vincent Metzen

            The Dark Lord sat brooding, staring into the crackling flames.  Behind him, his servants stood silently, attentive as always, hooded and cloaked in black.  He paid them no heed; he never did, lest it was to issue commands.  Now, he remained motionless, long ivory white fingers steepled together, the flickering firelight dancing on his face.  A darker, unfathomable sort of fire burned in his eyes, blood red and filled with hatred.  The Death Eaters who attended him stirred uneasily, robes rustling.  They were unused to this side of their master, the pensive moods that seized him ever so often, and they were afraid.  At last, he spoke in a sibilant hiss.

            "Leave me.  I wish to be alone."

            "Yes, Master."  One by one, the dark cloaked figures in the room departed, noiselessly, save for a soft whispering of fabric.  Soon, the room was empty except for the one lone silhouette, sunk deep within the armchair facing the fireplace.  Voldemort.

            He reflected back on his ascent to power.  Once, there had been a boy, a boy like any other, innocent, carefree, living in naïve bliss.  Once, he had been happy.  That boy was no more; the time of Tom Riddle was no more.  He had left that behind, closing a door irrevocably on that life, on the day he had learned his first lesson in the Dark Arts, the day he had first tasted its power.  He knew he would never be the same after that.  That small sip had piqued his thirst for wisdom, for knowledge and for power, a thirst that would never be quenched.  

            Power.  It was a seductive thing, a thing that had brought him to giddy heights and plunged him into the depths of despair.  His quest for it had become an obsession, an addiction.  It was the ultimate drug, power, for he had given up everything he had for more, for that feeling of euphoria, the thrill he gained at knowing that the world trembled at his feet.  Yet the price he paid was heavy.  This body he now possessed, this bloodless, bone white form, hurt him, tortured him, not with simple physical pain, a mere toying with nerve endings, but with a wrenching ache that throbbed within him, an empty feeling, of loss and regret.  

            It bothered him, this pain, but he ignored it and found that it abated each time he killed someone, that he could forget it while watching the life force ebb slowly out of some helpless being.  It always returned afterwards, more fierce than ever, yet some secret part of him relished this pain, and so he did nothing and spent his days and nights in an endless cycle of delicious agony.  He sensed, instinctively, that the pain came from that spark of the boy who had been, that weakness he had sought to destroy.  It was troublesome, for power could not come through weakness.  He locked Tom Riddle away deep inside, locked him away from light, from air, from _life_, determined to starve this last remnant of humanity within him that kept him from the power he needed so desperately.  A little bit of Tom Riddle died every time he killed someone, every time he tortured someone, and he continued his endless slaughtering and felt Tom die a little more, grow a little weaker each time.  As Tom weakened, his power grew, expanded; yet he burned inside with a flame that would not be extinguished, that seemed to grow ever hotter with each step he took.  He had the power he desired, he was stronger than anyone had ever been.  And yet, at the same time, he was weak, exhausted, a fragile soul standing at the edge of a black abyss.  One misstep, and he would be swallowed by darkness…        

Please, please, please review!  Do you like it?  Hate it?  Think there's something I should change?  Tell me!  Please?


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